


Why I call you bardling

by 0atMi1k



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:47:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0atMi1k/pseuds/0atMi1k
Summary: So, this is my first ever witcher fic, so go easy. This is Geralt's internal monologue after Jaskier decides to try his luck with a kikimora. Anything for his white wolf, I guess.
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

You know, when I call you bardling, it is not because I think of you as little. 

Is that what you feel? Little? When you're around me? What do you feel when you're around me? And I know, why would you answer now? Why should I ask? When do I ever ask?

Well, that's why I call you bardling. So you know. You know I mean to ask, but, well, you know how I am. Sometimes I wish I knew how to open my mouth and do the words like you do... But when I do open it, you know... Do you know?

Do you know? Because goddammit Jaskier, if you could just open your big blue eyes, show the slightest sign of life, listen to even a little bit of what I want you to hear...

-

I call you bardling because you're mine. I've seen the way people look at you when we're together in an inn or a market. Like a prop that a circus strongman keeps on stage to break, to show his strength. Like I would ever do that to you.

Well, as good as, bardling. As good as.

What were you fucking thinking? When we got into town, and you were recognised at the inn, probably for your questionable fashion sense rather than your well-oiled lute you keep flung over your shoulder or that- that voice of yours. What a voice... You could've done a great set last night. The barmaid was giving you the eye, it looked like half the village had taken refuge from the storm near the fireplace, you probably would've made enough coin to buy yourself a backup dancer, not that you need one. And I wouldn't have allowed it, obviously.

But you, stubborn arse, couldn't just do the obvious thing when I got what sounded like a kikimora contract from some toothless cretin calling himself the mayor of arse-end-of-nowhere-hamshire or whatever the villagers called the glorified pigsty they lived in. I'd just about gotten the details and the downpayment out of him when you stopped tuning up or flirting with the barmaid or whatever it is you do when I'm not around, and waltzed up to my corner table to come and introduce yourself to the poor man. I'm still figuring out if you could understand his accent or if you were just humouring him. I mean, there you were, still sopping wet from the outside, bright silk flapping and squelching, whilst affirming the poor turnip-puller of 'our' utmost discretion in monster disposal. Arse.

I could just about handle it when you insisted on changing doublets before we went out, even though you went for an even thinner silk which would get soaked through immediately. I could totally manage when you dropped some of my potions when I asked you to pass them when I was packing Roach's saddle bags. I was downright nice when you started complaining after only three minutes on the trail to where the kikimora was, even though I told you I could do it on my own and that I'd half a mind to stay at the inn with you, and wait until the rain ran its course. I have to hand it to you, for a human, I was impressed; you stuck by me, decided to brave the elements, even though you were weaker. For a travelling companion, however, you were an absolute bitch.

Yes, I know the ground is wet and your clothes are ruined and the bad weather untunes your strings and you wouldn't get any sleep. I told you about that in the first place, so why the hell you were there, right now I can only guess. Yep, right now there's not a lot I can do, bardling, except warm you up and wonder what you'd say if I told you all this, if you could hear me right now.

Not that that makes any difference. You knew the drill when we got there, and it's not like you generally had any complaints about it before. We got to the place, you took roach to a nearby tree, I would fetch a potion and get to work. Now, I know you like to talk and talk, but I don't know why, having been warned that kikimoras live in murky ponds, having anticipated going to a murky pond well in advance, having openly complained about the last murky pond we had to visit openly and loudly for days after, that you now felt the need to remark that we were, in fact, at yet another murky pond. Whatever makes you happy. And I really mean that. I really do.

That said, it's a fucking nightmare trying to appreciate the things you do for me sometimes. I nearly ran you through when you tucked that half-drowned wildflower in my hair. I'm glad you found that amusing, because I fucking didn't. But don't think I missed the wilt in your eyes or the slow in your heartbeat when I growled at you. I really didn't mean to. It's not like I didn't know you were there, I know, but I had just taken a potion and genuinely thought you were going to kill me, if that makes it any better.

It certainly doesn't for me. Any time you look at me like that, it's worse than getting eaten by a kikimora. But I guess you would know more about that than I would.

One thing you were right about, it was very wet and marshy on the ground. Or, as you'd put it, you couldn't sleep in your bedroll tonight for fear of drowning mid-dream. You know, I really can't imagine what you dream about. You seem to fill your days with dream things; wildflowers, and what the birds are doing, and cloud-gazing, and counting all the tiny inconveniences you can complain about. Do you dream about me the way I dream about you?

Well, I don't think I'll dream about you the same way ever again. I thought the bog was getting wider and wider because the rain was coming down so hard and fast, even though visibility was pretty good and it was easing up a bit. And I could've sworn you were over with roach, still apologising for springing a wildflower on me, in the safety of the underbrush, plucking out your next tune or something. You'd seen a kikimora before, none quite so big, so it must have been the sudden way it launched itself out of the water and the echoing crash around the clearing that startled you when it's oil-black body launched itself up, and it shrieked like that. Even I flinched, but it wasn't like I couldn't deal with it on my own.

Maybe you hadn't seen the limbs so close before, or how human they looked. I know you're a man of principal, even to a fault, but between your strong convictions along the lines of 'something as grotesque as that should not ever resemble a human' and your distaste at the way it was throwing me like a rag doll (which does not necessarily, for future reference, mean that I am not totally in control of a situation), I can't help feeling that some part of you should have said 'oh fuck run away' rather than 'oh no a monster slayer is slaying the monster he came here specifically to slay. Yep, I should definitely go and get myself involved in all this.' It's funny. You see a kikimora, with its disgustingly humanoid face, as a grotesque beast which has killed twenty villagers in the past fortnight and will kill many more if left to its own devices, but then, you look at me, a monster responsible for thousands of deaths, of every species there is, and you blush?

To be honest, at the time I was a bit preoccupied with about four limbs I was planning to hack off, when I registered your heartbeat getting closer, and that ridiculous little silver dagger I gave you to protect yourself, swinging just within my periphery, at two of the limbs pinning me in place. Your scent is usually my first indicator when you're around, you know. Usually, pine and smoke and honey and whatever wildflower you last picked. This time it was nearly entirely drowned out by the smell of fresh rain, decomposing leaves and rotting fish. I'd just turned a little to see a blurred shape. Well, I'm sure it would've been clearer if the pincers hadn't been squeezing into my neck for the last two minutes, cutting off my air supply. One of your blows struck true, unfortunately for you. It usually takes more than a brightly-clad bard to distract a kikimora from a witcher, but you are one for making an impression, aren't you?

You're not little, Jaskier. You're my bardling, but you're not little. But, all the kikimora had to do was flick its pincer before you were flying backward and I wish to all the gods I hadn't taken that potion, so I didn't have the reflexes to spin around and watch as the back of your head made impact with the side of a cave, followed by your neck crumpling into itself, then the rest of your body scuffing into the side with a sickening crack I wish to the gods I didn't have the ability to hear. Do you know how pathetic I felt, dropping my sword and lurching towards you when you fell five feet from where you hit, to the ground? I was twenty feet away, without a sword, in the clutches of a kikimora...

I don't even remember how I got over to you, I just remember the crunch as your body snapped into an ungodly position, your eyes rolling back, your fingertips white pressing into your palms as your arms straightened and your legs pushed you up into an arc, head and feet staying in contact with the ground as your chest pushed up. My heart wasn't in my chest anymore when the puppy-whining started, punctuated by those awful deep retches. Your voice- any human voice isn't made for a sound like that, but yours- your voice is to me what honey and sleep and sunshine is to you- I need it. But it was drowned by the white foam billowing from your mouth. That smile, it was not yours, not a choice. If anything, just the universe trying to return to its default settings. The red in your cheeks was gone and wicked out of the back of your head and down your yellow silk chemise, the colour now a gradient of plum to daisy, like a reverse sunset, but splattered with mud as your body started to quake.

It was like the first time you see a snake shed its skin, but the snake was being stoned to death, and it was the love of your life writhing in mud, his brains getting washed away in the storm, and it was taking an age to run over, to wrap you in my arms. I felt something holding me back; the corpse of the kikimora with its pincers tangled around me, a familiar dagger lodged in its eye. I broke out of it's vacant grip and was on you, around you, before I knew it myself. I squelched onto the ground and put you in my lap, making the mistake of putting my bare hand onto the back of your head, prompting a whine and the most lucid, pained sob I never want to hear again, and the convulsions were only just started. "Breathe" was a stupid thing to tell you, but what was I supposed to do, with everything inside you wanting to push itself out, like your entire being was shitting itself in a boggy clearing next to the corpse of a kikimora miles from the village we'd come from.

I failed you. For a while, all I thought to do was hold you as you struggled for air, wiping the foam away from your mouth and rocking back and forth, casting around for something to stop the bleeding with. I could feel bits of rock broken off in the back of your head, or maybe that was skull? Gods, I didn't know. 

I promise you, right now, that I will never ever tell you what I thought for a second in that clearing. What I saw in my head, it was unspeakable, and were it not for Roach, that would be reality.

I don't know how she undid her rope (likely due to your shoddy workmanship when it comes to tying knots), but however she managed it, I could not have been more glad to see roach galloping over, whinnying and pawing the ground. It's understandable, a horse recognises when their rider is anxious, and I'd never seen her like this. I'd never felt like this. It could have been hours, it could have been seconds, but I knew when I hoisted you up into the saddle and got on behind you, I could not let it be too late. That just wasn't an option. I don't know how Roach kept you atop her, or how I kept you in my arms with you dancing like a minnow in and out of seizures like you were, but between us, we managed it, and we were going so fast the only direction you could go was forward.

It looked exhausting. You would tense, pressing back into me, your thighs gripping the saddle, eyes rolling back and panting like a dog, going up into a pained whine, and long after I thought I couldn't hear anymore, even if that took only a few seconds, your body would relax, and the groaning and retching would continue for a couple of miles, your eyes half-closed and unfocused. You weren't honey anymore, just iron and rotting leaves.

And thank the gods for that healer, Julia, or Julka, or, whatever her name was. When we reached her place, I was so worried and it mattered so little, she could've been Lambert in a wig for all I knew. Gods only knew what she thought when I almost hammered the door in at whatever time it was. It's her scrubbed wooden table I lifted you onto, her magic putting your skull back together, her tweezers pulling rock out of the back of your head, rock that wouldn't be there if I just protected you like I should, if you only stayed safe in that inn. Her hands tend and bandage, and mine hold you down as your skin is singed back together and a needle pierces the back of your head eighteen times. I've got you close up to the fireplace, drying the bloodstains into your clothes, but that won't matter, I'll make it up to you. I'll buy you new ones, and lots of them, if you only open your fucking eyes, Jaskier. Come on. I want to do more for you than hold your hand and listen to every groan and rasp you fight for. I'll never complain about your talking ever again, anything but this. Just open your eyes.


	2. Out of the clearing, I guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3rd person account of everything going down so Geralt and Jaskier can have their well-needed post-whump chat

Roach knew her place.   
Jaskier stroked her muzzle as he tied her reigns to the tree and fed her a handful of oats, but his stroking slowed as he looked over at Geralt wistfully, before his face split into a grin. He stooped down as Geralt uncorked his special brew, picking some pretty pink wood sorrel and, ever so gracefully, tucking it into his hair behind his ear. The way roach figured it, Geralt should've been pleased (who in the world would've been able to find wood sorrel in a bog like this other than Jaskier?) but, as it happened, Geralt didn't seem to be too pleased about it, spinning around and yelling, eyes black, putting his sword right up against the arch at the bottom of Jaskier's ribcage, ready to push the silver point up into his heart. He seemed not quite in the mood to murder Jaskier today, though.  
"Just stand over there!"  
"Okay! Okay! I'm sorry!"

Jaskier backed over to Roach's side, looking for somewhere to plait it into her mane instead, as Geralt picked up a flat stone and seemed to want to skim it across the water. As the stone sank in, something jumped out, and Roach felt an unpleasant tug on her mane as everyone started yelling, including the huge kikimora measuring up which part of Geralt looked tastiest, then noticing the sword with the joy of someone who was in the mood to play with her food. Both Jaskier and Geralt were straight down to business, Geralt swiping at the first leg on his right, and Jaskier, stroking Roach's muzzle and trying to act like this was to comfort her and not like she was currently a big stressball to him. Roach knew not to watch what was going on, but to wait patiently. She would only get herself spooked, and Geralt needed her to be calm and ready for anything. She knew she'd get an account of anything Geralt did anyway, first from his own mouth, how it made him feel, how he dealt each blow and dealt with his own, but nowadays she would get it again in the form of annoyingly catchy lute and melodic vocals. Jaskier, however, had his eyes locked. It wasn't unusual for him to steal glances at Geralt, but this was not his usual soft gaze. This was paralysis. 

He couldn't move, could hardly even breathe, as Geralt was lifted off the ground and held in place by two sets of pincers, not seeing the figure rising out of the water to his right. It looked to be an adolescent kikimora, about half the size of its mother, with its pincers wide, ready to make its first kill. That's why so many other villagers had lived to tell the tale, coming back to the settlement missing fingers and feet and ears. It had been practising. Something about the fact that there were two kikimoras, or the tiny distance between Geralt and their mouths, unstuck Jaskier from his paralysis. Like a fast ballad on the lute, his fingers were suddenly a blur on Roach's saddlebags, unfastening and rooting around. He suddenly stopped, lurching forward and grabbing a stone, which he cast at the confused lot, and struck the younger on the top of the head, causing it to scuttle away into the filth and murk. He launched his hand back into the saddle bag as he watched the witcher struggle for air, the pincers around his neck, his face getting impossibly paler before she dunked him in the water for revenge, which didn't make any difference as the waning storm had already drenched him. His sword was drooping in his hand, when Jaskier practically launched himself at the pair, a silver dagger hoisted into the air, jumping up onto one of the pincers and stabbing it in the eye, pulling down to make a slit like a cat's pupil, with blood flowing out with a stench of rotting fish that immediately wafted throughout the clearing, strong enough to make Roach buck and whinny, releasing her reigns from the tree they were tied to. 

Then a flick, a splash and a crack as a yellow sack of flour with arms and legs hit the other side of the cave Roach was standing by, and Geralt dropped his sword trying to grab it as it sailed out of his grasp. The kikimora shrieked and dropped him, landing on top of his legs. The ground beneath him was slick mud and rotten leaves which had sunk to the bottom of the pond. He lifted the body off himself, dropping it when he was out from under it and getting tangled in the stiffening pincers. He turned, hurriedly hacking away at the limbs, then rounded the cave, squelching with eyeball juice and rain and mud. Roach didn't want to interrupt initially, when she heard the grunting. It wasn't her place to go snooping, and it was her job to show a good example to Jaskier of knowing what your place was. But the grunting turned to whines like a puppy with a thorn in its paw, and Geralt always came back to her when a job was finished.

Roach sauntered over to find the source of the gasping, and found Geralt, rocking back and forth with something very pale and oddly shaped in his arms. It was Jaskier, writhing like a newborn foal who'd been bitten by an adder. For the first time, when Geralt looked up at her, she really couldn't tell what he was thinking. She'd seen his brow arc, his mouth draw into a tight line, she'd seen it all, but never quite like this. There was... more.

It didn't last long. Geralt hauled Jaskier up, only just finding his legs under him, stumbling over with Jaskier's whole body fritzing like it was, rocking their collective form like a dinghy in a whirlpool. Geralt laid him in the saddle, tying him in the reigns so Jaskier wouldn't fall off as he got up behind him, leaving bloody smears on the saddle as he hooked his leg over and undid the rope tying Jaskier down. Roach adjusted to the rocking nearly immediately as Geralt grabbed the reigns and kicked her into a gallop. She was wondering where the usual chatter was, but Jaskier just slumped back and became dead weight, but at least he was still, and Geralt shifted to tighten his arms around him, letting him rest further into his chest. 

Was- was Geralt shushing him? If Roach didn't know any better, she would have thought that her witcher was actually comforting a human, but she didn't have time to think about that as he willed her faster into the damp early morning air. as they passed a brook, it looked like Geralt was slowing down to get some water for the bard, when the wheezing and shuffling started again, the bard's knees painfully pinning the saddle into her sides. She wasn't sure whether she was starting or stopping as the bard gave her all these mixed signals, but Geralt's instructions were clear. He had the reigns, and he said run.

Jaskier eventually got the message to stop badgering roach, as he went still and heavy again. She wondered if Geralt had knocked him out to make him stop messing about, guessing from his unconscious weight and half-asleep groans, but this seemed not to please Geralt, guessing from the "oh gods" he let slip. It was a blessing to them all when they got to the edge of the village, where the healer's tiny cottage came into view, with a stable outside and enough fresh hay to feed Roach for a month under usual circumstances, or just a light snack today, after all that galloping. Geralt grabbed Jaskier roughly under the waist and draped him over his shoulder, jumping off Roach's back and making his way to the door in three strides, hammering on the door, unblinking, supporting Jaskier with such rough care. Roach could see he was holding his breath.

She sauntered into the stables, absolutely beat, before the door to the cottage swung open and a candle illuminated the outside.  
"What's happened?" Julakinne asked before Geralt barged in. She wasn't unused to people storming right in during an emergency, especially after all those kikimora attacks.  
"Another one of the kikimora's lot? It's a bad business." She cleared the scrubbed wooden table for Geralt to put Jaskier down on, and turned to stoke the logs in the fireplace, adding a few more small clumps of wood to get some warmth into the soaking pair. Geralt slid Jaskier down past his shoulder and laid him down on the table, eyes wide and unblinking as he lowered him, supporting his head as if it were made of eggshell and glass.

"Right, let's take a look, shall we? Let's turn him onto his side." Geralt blushed, but went back to business in the blink of an eye. "He's already in a pretty bad way, poppet. You can't hurt him much more, don't worry yourself." She peeled back the strips of cloth stuck to the back of his head. It was bad. She would've been assessing the damage a bit better if she wasn't so distracted by the presence over her shoulder. "Would you mind chopping some firewood, to get him nice and warm?" Geralt wouldn't meet her eye, instead staring at the bard's blood on the table, and Julakinne had just begun to wonder what role the witcher had to play in this injury and why he was so intent on watching him every single moment, before he nodded, and left without a word.

She turned back to assess the damage, and found that he was still bleeding. She had the boiled water ready in a bowl soon enough, and dropped her tools in, to kill off any germs. She scooped out her tweezers and started removing little bits of rock. Jaskier shifted and groaned. "Hurts, does it? Don't you worry. You just keep nice and still, and I'll get you something for the pain." But Jaskier didn't stop shifting, and started writhing and banging his head on the table. The witcher was inside the hut before she even called for him. "Hold him down." She frantically ran to the other side of the table, laying her hands on Jaskier's head to start her healing magic. As soon as she got in she could feel two rather odd things- panic and love.

He'd been troubled when, whatever happened, had happened. He was fighting something bigger than himself for somebody he loved. She didn't have time to speculate about this, and tried to untangle his mind, and reduce the swelling in his brain. Geralt was breathing hard nearby, fighting to keep Jaskier from pushing him off and doing himself an injury in his confusion. She pushed harder into his head, willing to force his brain to see what it was doing to his body, to make it behave itself. Jaskier's arm suddenly jolted, tearing across what was left of Geralt's shirt after the day's events. Geralt realised the dagger was still in Jaskier's cold little hand. As the convulsions and the shuddering gasps subsided, Geralt put his hand around Jaskier's, and pulled the dagger out, and ran his thumb over the soft little palm, feeling the indentations bumping across it; Jaskier had been gripping the hilt so hard, this entire time, that the decoration carved into it had been transferred into his hand. Geralt's face hardened, his eyes screwing shut as he forced himself to feel this pattern. The pattern he'd put there.

"Fetch me the potion on top of the cabinet. The green one." Geralt opened his eyes and cursed himself for being distracted from the task at hand. He slipped the dagger into his belt and brought the potion over. "Hold him up so he can swallow it." Like a man out of a cuckoo clock, he rigidly paced behind Jaskier and, ever so carefully, slipped his hand under the back of Jaskier's neck, supported Jaskier's head on his chest, then wrapped his arm under Jaskier's armpit and over the opposite shoulder as he hoisted him up into a sitting position, his head lolling about. Julakinne uncorked the bottle and the smell of rotten fish wafted out, bringing Geralt right back to that clearing, suffocating and useless as the crunch rang through the air. "Smells terrible, I know, but it'll help your... friend?" She had no idea what they were, but that wasn't the priority right now. She opened Jaskier's mouth and poured the liquid in, willing him to swallow. "Yes, that's it. Good. Now, this potion will help him-"

Geralt's expression cut her off. She doubted whether he could even hear her, staring into Jaskier's demi-lidded eyes. She didn't mind the silence, taking her time to think about her next move. She tilted Jaskier's head to the side a little, startling Geralt out of his trance. His head was still bleeding a little, but her healing magic had reduced the swelling significantly, and the skull was fractured but miraculously intact. The painkiller she'd just given him was full of vitamins known to help mend bones, so all she had to do was remove the debris, stop the bleeding and make sure infection didn't set in. If it did, he was a goner for sure.

"Where's that firewood?" Geralt looked up at her for the first time, then back at Jaskier and lowered him down onto the table before going outside and fetching armfuls of wood. It looked like he'd chopped down an entire clearing. Most of it was immaculately neat, uniform chunks, but some of it looked so splintered, it could have been blasted apart with dynamite. She didn't get a very good look as the fire was soon roaring and those blocks were the first to get burned. They were in for an arduous couple of hours. For a long time, they stood there, Julakinne removing the rest of the debris, and Geralt holding his hand and wiping away the blood. Jaskier's breathing became sleepy and peaceful, rather than the tough rasp which choked him, making all the veins in his neck stand out like they did before. She had this time to reflect a little, before it hit her. This young bard had been protecting something he loved before something bigger than himself had threatened it somehow. Well, the witcher was much larger than him, and who wouldn't be afraid of him, with mud and guts in his hair, his eyes an ungodly yellow, sickly against his pale skin, which gleamed with sweat, as he stared down with something like desperation at the tiny figure. Why would he hold his hand and stroke his hair like that if he was a threat?

Because he wanted him. He wanted the bard. Witchers must have needs, and that would explain his stiff behaviour. In for the long haul, was he? Waiting for the right moment? She pushed the thought from her mind. She would patch the bard up, then see how she could help him from there. She couldn't exactly chuck a witcher out of her house.

She'd finished plucking the bits of rock from the back of his head, making the bleeding increase. She didn't want to have to cauterise the wound, but once the last rock was removed, it was all but gushing. They could both see what needed to be done, and Geralt didn't need telling. He walked over to the fireplace and held out his hand for whatever she would use, as she applied pressure to the waterfall escaping Jaskier's head with a bundled up cloth. Both her hands were on it, and Geralt faltered. "Use that." She nodded towards the dagger in Geralt's belt. It still had eyeball juice and blood on it. His lip tightened into a line, and he blanched for just a second. Looking back up at her, then at Jaskier's muddy face, he put the dagger in the bowl of now luke-warm water, pulled it out and wiped the gunk off, onto his shirt. She tutted. Who did his laundry? Poor soul, she thought. Geralt then stooped down and held the tip of the dagger into the flames. It wasn't long until the blade was changing colours like a volatile chameleon. "On three, you hold him down on his side, I'll take the knife, and we'll get his head singed back together, right?" He nodded and they braced themselves. "One.. Two... Three!"

It was a swift transaction. Julakinne threw the cloth aside and grabbed the knife, looking closely at the wound before going straight in for the kill, ignoring the squeal of flesh being burnt together and the smell of singed hair and meat. What worried her more was how little he fought back. He barely shifted under Geralt's arms, sobbing drily like a child at the end of a month-long tantrum. It was over soon, heralded by the splosh of the knife back into the basin of water, still hot enough to hiss. They all sighed in relief, before Julakinne took up her needle and thread. She might as well finish it now, rather than drawing the process out. The bard didn't shift at all; he probably couldn't feel anything there anymore- it would be a long scar. Six or seven inches, probably. She got to work with the thread- the black made a nice contrast to the red and yellow he'd been covered in, and wouldn't be too obvious among his dark curls.

Geralt took this opportunity to wipe the mud and tears off Jaskier's face, staring at the eyelids he wished were open, looking for the eyes behind them. "It's the grey one on the third shelf of the cabinet." Oh, she'd been talking to him. He looked up. "The antiseptic? Third shelf, grey?" He nodded and bustled over, looking up and down, trying to focus. Grey bottle, grey bottle. He grabbed it as soon as saw it, and almost sent the cabinet flying, before steadying it. He waddled back over, head down. "I do that sometimes." She hummed. She didn't normally let people know how clumsy she was, especially when they needed her, but what would the witcher do? Leave and get someone else? The nearest healer was Esmeralda, the other side of a whole mountain range, who mainly dealt in midwifery anyway. Geralt did, indeed, stop blushing so much, as he stood beside her and handed her bits of cloth to spread the ointment with, over the eighteen fresh stitches.

It wasn't long before Jaskier was bandaged up, and all they could do was wait. Geralt moved the table closer to the fireplace and wrapped him in an almost concerning amount of blankets. Julakinne was a nervous eater, so she made the morning's bread just before the sun rose and brewed some herbal tea, to calm Geralt's nerves. When she returned to the main room, he was resting his head against the table, eyes closed, next to Jaskier's head, sat on a stool which looked comically small underneath him. She but his bread and jam and cup of tea down beside the fire to keep it warm, then sat down beside him on a chair. It really didn't make sense to her that a witcher would trade his own comfort for that of a human, but she wasn't complaining. She ate her bread and jam, looking Geralt up and down. He was pale, covered in five different substances, his hand still wrapped around the others'. She just couldn't believe that he was a threat to this man. The bard, who'd been sound asleep for maybe four hours, stirred just a little.

The first thing Jaskier registered was how warm and dry he felt, wrapped inexplicably in all sorts of skins and blankets and what felt like a tea towel, too. He could smell bread and jam and monster guts. What kind of monster ate bread and jam? Who's to say they ATE the bread and jam, he reminded himself with a little nod which sent him reeling. Well, he wouldn't be doing that again, he thought, before doing it again despite himself. He then felt the giant hand encapsulating his own.

"Geralt?"

Geralt of Rivia? Wow, she'd been in the presence of a celebrity this entire time, thought Julakinne. Geralt snapped up, responsibility and protectiveness sparking in his eyes. "Water" said Geralt robotically, casting around for his waterskin. He'd been doing that, Julakinne noticed. Whenever she said what Jaskier needed, there it was, held out to her.She didn't even need to ask nicely. It was the least effort she'd had to put into assuring a patient's loved ones in years. When she asked him to hold Jaskier down, she noticed him staring directly at Jaskier's eyes. Either he was blocking everything out and his gaze just landed there, or he was forcing himself to gaze into eyes that wouldn't look back. Either way, this was the first time he'd spoken in hours, and it wasn't good. It sounded like he'd lost all headspace to work out what to do, so any ideas just came right out of his mouth unrestricted. She realised with a gasp, he was feeling. A witcher? FEELING? Oh no, she no longer worried what he'd done to Jaskier, but what Jaskier had done to him. Right now, however, he was having a waterskin pushed into his hands.

"Why does my head hurt?" Jaskier wondered aloud, with the far-off curiosity of a child waking from a nap. Julakinne shifted to look at the stitches as Geralt put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from getting up. He suddenly didn't feel like talking about any of it. Not now, not ever. But he had to tell him something.

"You hit your head."  
"When?"  
"We were in the forest-"  
"was it because of that wood sorrel?"  
"Don't you remember?"  
"Remember what?"  
Geralt's face became absolutely unreadable. 'Because of that wood sorrel'... Did he think Geralt had given him a punch on the nose? And why were his eyes roving around like that? He looked at everything twice, like it wouldn't go in the first time around. He held the waterskin up to his face and tried to drink from it with the top still in. Geralt lurched forward to undo it for him, and Jaskier blinked sluggishly. Was that a flinch? He tried to undo it, but just ended up getting water everywhere. He grabbed a cloth and started mopping up, but Jaskier's hand on his stopped him.  
"Geralt. Geralt, stop."  
But Geralt wouldn't stop, mumbling an excuse and not meeting Jaskier's eyes.   
"Let me do that." Julakinne took the cloth from him. Her curiosity was getting the better of her, she wanted to hear this. Geralt was defeated. He looked at Jaskier, and let go of a breath he'd been holding in. It lasted a long time, and finished with a slight wheeze. He really was in no state to do any explaining. Jaskier looked him up and down. He looked cold, paler than usual. The bags under his eyes were darker than ever. His whole body was screaming for some rest, and it was just then that Geralt realised how hungry and tired and fed up he was, but it had paled in comparison to how guilty he felt for letting any of this happen. Now the stress was wearing off, little by little, he thought he might actually crumble like an ant hill, but he stood his ground. Dammit, he'd been praying for Jaskier to wake up, and now he had, Geralt would be fucking pleased about it.  
"What happened to the kikimoras?"  
"Jaskier," his voice shuddered, "There was only one kikimora."  
"No there wasn't. There was a little one behind you. I threw a rock at it and it went away. Roach saw, you can ask her."  
"Roach?" Julakinne frowned.  
"Our horse." Geralt explained. Jaskier didn't miss the 'our' part. He would have smiled if he wasn't getting so concerned. Geralt had shut his eyes, which wasn't normally a good thing.  
"So that's why you came over. There was another one."  
"Why else would I come over. In case you forgot, that's the one thing you tell me never to do."  
Geralt's mind was racing too fast to appreciate Jaskier getting a little more of his it back.  
"And it was in the same place as the older one?" He asked, putting his sodden armour back on with a determined glint in his eye.  
"What's that for?" Julakinne didn't like the look of this.  
"I'll be back as soon as I can." Geralt arranged his swords and opened the door. "Try to get some rest."  
"Geralt?!" Jaskier's howl followed him out the door. He was halfway to the stables when a crash made him rush back to the cottage door, which opened before he got there.  
"I said, don't move." Julakinne was trying to hoist Jaskier back onto the table from where he'd crumpled, trying to open the door.  
"What were you thinking, trying to get up? You can't even balance lying down."  
Geralt took one look into those eyes and knew he'd said the wrong thing. Jaskier looked tearful for one second before he began to howl like a toddler who'd fallen on their face.  
"I'm s-sorry G-Geralt-t-t... I didn't-t m-mean to get-t in the waaay." He sucked in a huge shuddering gasp. "P-please d-don't-t leave meeee!"  
Geralt frowned at himself and scooped Jaskier up, light as anything.  
"I'm not going anywhere, I'm just getting this." He whistled to roach, who plodded over to the open door, still sore from the journey the previous night, and Geralt plucked the sweet pink wood sorrel from her mane. He walked back over to Jaskier and tucked behind his ear. He stopped crying, gulping for air for a while before looking at Geralt askance.  
"Why did you need a flower?"  
At this moment, something clicked for Julakinne. The kikimora, the thing Jaskier loved. He'd been protecting his witcher from a monster.  
"Oh." For the first time, they both really looked at Julakinne. "Don't mind me. I'd just been wondering, you see, what could've happened to you. I thought maybe you could've been trouble for him." She nodded at Jaskier, but her speech was directed at Geralt. "I was ready to seriously kick your arse if you were. I'm glad I didn't have to. I couldn't have been more wrong." Jaskier's face split into a grin as he side-eyed his partner.  
"Look, Geralt. She would've been useful against that kikimora. Could've protected you a bit better." Jaskier snickered to himself, but she was having none of it.  
"Right, you're having some water and going back to sleep. And you, your bread and jam will be too hot and your tea will be too cold, so you'd better get them down you."  
Neither of them wanted to argue with her logic, or the wooden spoon she was brandishing threateningly at them, so they didn't. They settled down, both secretly very glad that they didn't have to traipse out and kill something.

**Author's Note:**

> As I say, this is my very first fic, and I wrote this in one night. It's basically just a first draft, and I might add another chapter to it later in 3rd person if that sounds interesting to anyone. I might even continue the story, for all that recovery Jaskier will have to go through, and all the conversations Geralt will completely bungle as per usual. All feedback is welcome! I just hope this is satisfactory for everyone ;)
> 
> I'm also currently working on a paper about why people experience whump. If you could fill in this questionnaire, it would be a great help, and I'll be posting the findings on reddit and tumblr :) The link is:
> 
> https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSfLh5cHKbiNF5q_Zsw8yOu72mZZKj1HbmUB7mJvdMCXkIoEsA/viewform?usp=sf_link
> 
> Thanks for reading my little fic!


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